Never Underestimate the Enemy
by Sherringford Holmes
Summary: Sequel to Mock the Man, just a silly little chapter, give me your thoughts. I am messing with ideas, review and PM me ideas. I really need them...


Никогда не стоит недооценивать врага

_The boys are back and revenge is rife in the air. Moriarty is dead but be warned, the increasing amount of murders in the London area and Sherlock becoming less able deduce is worrying John and Lestrade intently._

"_Never underestimate the enemy"_

A/N: Hey guys, I know, you're probably sick of this story by now and sick of me, so I've made this chapter long so that I can move into my new house and make sure that I haven't left you lot a measly excuse for a chapter. I just want to add, please, to any Benedict fans, please can you pick out the Atonement phrase I've "sneakily" put into this chapter. Well. I SAY sneakily, for some of the people, as obsessed as I am, I'm guessing the line will just leap out at you if you know the entirety of Benedict's acting career and have it stacked, in order of year, on a shrine like shelf *blush* of course I _haven't got that!_ ;) Oh well, enough about my home life and more about the story itself.

Anyways :D

Onwards my lovely luscious people!

Nicole

X x x

Никогда не стоит недооценивать врага Part I

_Number: [Withheld]_

_Message:_

_For what you've done to me I will wreak havoc on your life._

_Watch out, I'm coming to find you Sherlock Holmes._

_SM & PG_

_We'll be seeing you very VERY soon._

Sherlock sucked in a breath in fright. Not knowing how his actions had snowballed into something truly awful. Something that was coming to get him.

[Two days later]

Sherlock was still shaken from the text message. He would jump at every noise and would be even more protective over John. He was starting to make John suspicious about the over-protectiveness, Sherlock was sly when he wanted to be but whilst the hours dragged by the tension that he was feeling made him become slightly more transparent. As they both settled in the front room, television on, when Sherlock reached over to the remote, he switched the channel as the last programme finished and turned over to BBC News 24, a habit of his, trying to keep up with the day's news.

"-in, there's been a murder in Bethnal Green, a woman has been found with all the hallmarks of suicide, the name of the victim has not been released, the police are treating this as suicide, but they're keeping all options open as the conditions of death are suspicious, we'll bring you more information as the news comes in, back to the other stories of the day. Grit is at an all-time low in Greater London area, mayor, Boris Johnson has commented-,"

Sherlock leapt up in surprise, pulling his phone from his pocket he hurriedly typed a message and sent it, then decided to go to contacts and harshly pushed the green call button.

"What the hell are you playing at Lestrade?" he barked after, what John presumed, the DI had picked up the phone.

There was a quick reply.

"Listen, listen! I want to be able to come to the crime scene straight away and if you don't grant access then I'm going to have to let the MET know some little details about your life, and be assured, you'll be jobless by the week is up, you never keep murders from me unless there's something that you think is going to be an emotional tie, what is going on?"

Sherlock stood still for a few seconds as Lestrade gave in and gave him the information he needed. Sighing Sherlock pulled the phone from his ear and stabbed the red "hang-up" button, muttering to himself he moved to the door and unhooked his coat from the peg.

"So, what's going on?" John asked as Sherlock picked up his keys and slipped them into his pocket, Sherlock was acting as if John didn't exist.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, and Sherlock faced him, eyes brimming with tears (_god, he cried so often now, what is John _doing_ to him?_)

"You can't come," Sherlock said as he rushed to the door

"Why?" John said earnestly grabbing the other man's sleeve "Sherlock, why?"

Sherlock just shook his head, put his hand over Johns and softly released his hand, clasped it, carrying on shaking his head and then exited the flat, without another word.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Sherlock pushed the tears away as he pulled his hand from his pocket and thrust it out to grab a cab's attention.

"Birkbeck Street, Bethnal Green, Poplar," he barked at the cabbie as he took off his gloves to warm his hands.

The cab ride was boring and dull, London had never looked so ominous, the grey structures loomed over the cab as it pushed its way through the war of snowflakes and concrete. Bright cars passed but shed no colour on Sherlock's life. He felt like his life was crumbling as the cab reached its destination.

"£25 mate," the cabbie said, breaking Sherlock from his dreams and worries.

"£25?" Sherlock said, dumbfounded, eyes wide in shock.

"These are tough times, sir," the cabbie replied "now pay up,"

"Believe me, _sir_, if I wasn't in a hurry I'd make sure you deduct money for your _rudeness_," Sherlock hissed venomously.

The cabbie retracted, eyes narrowed and suspicious he stopped talking and snatched the £25 from the pale clasp that Sherlock had.

"Have a good day, _sir_," he said sarcastically as Sherlock exited the cab, Sherlock shook his head at the arrogance and told himself the man wasn't worth the hassle he pulled the collar high around his pale neck, fading marks showed the public audience that he had a lover, but no-one to whom he'd had recent passion with.

Walking over to the scene, it was easy to see, a blind person could see it, a big white tent, plenty of police cars and men and women of the force swarming around the scene, cold breath like the soul of the deceased was staying on the Earth, trying to find it's murderer.

The scene was as followed, the grimy, grey bricked bridge held up the train track, the 15"0 sign was dripping water from the top of the bridge ceiling to the pavement below. The panel lights on the underneath of the bridge lit the whole scene up like it was inside a pathologist's lab, their white, clinical light made it look as if a hospital had been made up in the street, on one wall of the bridge there was unintelligible scribble, a red like substance staining the wall, what could, at a distance look like graffiti, but Sherlock knew it was something far more sinister.

Sherlock took a breath as he approached the blue and white tape, seeing the back of the silver haired DI he knew where he had to go.

Lifting up the tape he murmured an excuse to the police man who questioned his validly and he enclosed onto the man in front of him who turned to see him arrive.

"Afternoon Sherlock," he greeted the other man solemnly and walked towards the tent, stopping short of the door he pointed to the curved wall.

"And that's the murder's artwork," Lestrade said bitterly.

Sherlock looked up and in the midst of the grey Victorian brick-work was lettering in blood, the colour was browning slightly, Sherlock knew what it said before he read it, Lestrade had already told him what it had said over the phone, making sure he was prepared for the shock because there, in the cold blood that what snaking across the lichen, the mould, the moss and the damp read:

_Tick Tock, John's time is up _

_Watson is going to be dead_

_Tick Tock, John's time is up_

_Beware of the blood-shed_

Sherlock winced as he looked down. What had he done? Had he not told himself that this would happen? The consequences would be severe, at best.

"Shall we?" Sherlock nodded at the tent and the went inside.

Laid out on the floor, spread eagled across the grimy, dirty, bacteria-riddened pavement was a woman, her young body was mangled, blood was matted in her hair, her clothes had splodges of their original colour, the blood had seeped into the vast majority of his clothes and was crusting and browning into darker colours.

Her eyes were closed but blood trails looked like tears had intermingled with the life-blood and made her look like an angel who'd been killed by the devil, her face was contorted and screwed up in pain. Sherlock pitied her as he looked at her nails, cracked, almost cracked all the way down to the cuticle, blood was dried in those cracks too.

"It looks like whoever it was, smashed her head on the roadside bollard," Lestrade pointed to the black pole which looked sticky and slightly crimson in the clinical light.

Sherlock nodded and pointed to the girls necklace, it was a locket, a silver, with a very 1930's, almost art-deco style engraving, it was almost hidden under her hair, the pendant had got caught in some blood mottled strands and almost camouflaged it.

"Um, no, Anderson didn't notice that," Lestrade said, Sherlock tutted with a half-smile.

"You need to upgrade your forensics team," he said bitterly

Pulling on latex gloves he reached behind the victims ear, pulling the pendent out he opened it and out sprang a piece of white paper. Hurriedly, Sherlock opened it and looked inside, there was two notes, one in a curly, expensive looking hand-writing and the other was a scruffy, man-looking hand writing written smaller underneath to compensate for the lack of space left on the paper.

_If you're reading this then I want you to know_

_All the passwords for my computers are:_

_Sherlock-Holmes_

At the bottom was scribbled:

_21-11,14,15,23-23,08,05,18,05-19,08_

Staring down at numbers his brain was starting to pull the pieces together. What the numbers could represent and mean.

"I'm taking this," Sherlock stated as he left the scene, putting the paper into a crime scene bag.

"Uh-um-Sher-Sherlock!" Lestrade started as the Detective swept from the tent, Lestrade followed behind him "you can't do that!" he shouted after him.

"If you want your case _solved Detective Inspector _then you let me have this inanimate piece of evidence that _your_ team overlooked and let me do this," Sherlock spat at him. Lestrade nodded, taking a breath in and breathing heavily outwards, making a jet stream of vapour push from his chapped, worn lips.

Sherlock huffed and pulled his coat tighter around him. Adrenaline sizzled and simmered in his veins as he thought about what storm was yet to come. The snow under his feet crunched like cotton wool and there was the occasional ice slab cracked under his water soaked patent leather shoes.

"TAXI!" Sherlock barked as he held his hand out as he got to the main road, no cab pulled over so he threw his hand by his side in frustration and walked across the road to the Bethnal Green tube station, pulling out his oystercard from his coat pocket he swiped it on the yellow sensor and walked through the gate, going down the escalators he tapped the hand-rail impatiently.

After getting on the West-bound Central line tube he disembarked at Oxford Circus and changed to the Bakerloo Line and hopped on the tube until he got to Baker Street. His brain was so used to using the public transport services he just let his automatic instinct take over, it was only when he was walking from the Baker Street Station he realised just where he was and how he was going to have to explain his sudden and dramatic exit to the flat, he rationalised in his mind, John had to know, the graffiti was about him and he was going to find out what is was eventually. Sherlock sighed as he pushed open the door to the flat.

"Hello?" he called

There was no lights, no signs of life, nothing. Sherlock hunted around, pushing open doors and pulling open the sliding doors to the kitchen. John was gone, and Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears, blood was coursing through his veins at an incredible amount.

"John?" he called again, moving up the stairs into the attic room to which John still kept his stuff in and had not slept in for months because of the ordeal he'd been through. He peered in and there, laying on the table to which John had used as a bedside cabinet lay an envelope, Sherlock rushed over to the envelope, ripping it open after noticing his name was written in John's handwriting on the front of the envelope he looked inside and read:

_Sherlock, _

_Look, I know you're trying to protect me, I know you're busy and you feel like I'm holding you back. But I also know that what you promised me when we got married is still burning in your heart, I know that you care for me and you love me. And I love you too, but after everything that's happened of late I think it's time that we spent a while apart. I know you know where I am and if you want to talk please don't come and make a mess, just text me, because you know, deep down, we need a break. I'm not saying I don't love you, I'm not saying that you don't love me and that I'm leaving you, because I'm not, at all, I just need some peace from your overprotection, I love you because you're so caring and you think of me and you worry. But this has to stop. Keeping cases from me, keeping me in the dark and making me feel like the one in the middle, the third person that never gets into a conversation, the person who loves you but wants to be told the truth. I know, it's most likely a death-threat or a murder that is connected to my kidnapping and you think it's better keeping it from me, but it's most definitely not. I want to not know if my life is in danger, I want to know if I'm a targeted man. Please, don't keep this from me. I could tell you were upset, I could tell you were a mess, whatever Lestrade had told you, it had made you more worried than you've been in months. And Christ, that scares me, absolutely petrifies me, but if it's someone wanting revenge for what you did, but I can't escape from what you did and what it meant, the full extent of which I'm only now beginning to grasp, you have opened the Pandora's box of revenge, Sherlock, for me. You killed the man you couldn't resist for me. Although I shouldn't feel like that is you proving yourself to me, I feel that it is. And that scares me; I know I did it for you, on our very first night together I killed a man for you Sherlock but this is different._

_I'm coming back, don't worry about me, I'm being a normal husband and I'm just having a breather._

_I love you so very much, I want you to know this is your fault but please don't punish yourself, you didn't start this, Moriarty did and if there's anyone to push the blame towards, it's him and his memory._

_All yours,_

_John_

Sherlock put the note down and his hands started shaking.

_He's at Harry's house_ he thought as he felt tears well up _now, come on Sherlock, he's made in incredibly clear that he's not leaving you, that it's only a break for a while and that he's going to come back. He just needs to breath and he just needs to have his family around him _his thought trail scoffed somewhat (if that were possible) _Harry? Advice? Advice from Harry the alcoholic? _

Sitting down on the disused bed he flopped onto the severely tucked in bed, burying his nose in the bed and its smell.

This is where I want your idea's here:

You can pick one of these options:

• Moriarty somehow survived or something like that (I'd need help from the people who vote for this one, just to have help with how to resurrect the consulting criminal)

• Peter and Sebastian are an item and are wanting revenge, they try to kill John in different, weird, ways.

• A main character (of your choice-depends on polls etc.) gets killed and Sherlock and John have to have a trial of clues to get the murder to justice

• YOUR CHOICE! YOU CAN MAKE UP YOUR OWN CHAPTER IDEA AND LET ME KNOW :D Please, if you do, it would be such a fabulous help for ideas and intertwining plots and clever stuff !

P.S- whatever those numbers stand for I have actually forgotten so I'll get onto it and then try to solve my own riddle. Jesus….why didn't I write it down? :/


End file.
